


a cry for help in an empty church

by DecoySocktopus



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Do Not Archive, M/M, Manipulation, Nonconathon Treat, Punishment, Rape as discipline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-24 19:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14960478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecoySocktopus/pseuds/DecoySocktopus
Summary: It’s an unfortunate thing, having Peter here today. But a wager is a wager.





	a cry for help in an empty church

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicago_ruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicago_ruth/gifts).



The tape recorder clicks on. There is no one close enough to touch it.

“He’s taking his time,” Peter comments. “Is this normal?”

“It is.” Elias sits at his desk. Peter has refused the offered seat; he is not a man given to waiting for others. He roams the office, touching books and artefacts, smiling at the ones he recognises. No doubt he has heard stories about the things Elias keeps in his office. No doubt he is looking for the things Elias _isn’t_ known for keeping in his office.

It’s an unfortunate thing, having Peter here today. But a wager is a wager.

In one tidy corner of his mind, Elias sees movement. “Ah, good. Jon is on his way. He’ll be here in a minute.”

“You let him keep you waiting?”

“I find it’s best to show patience in the early years.”

“Maybe so,” Peter says. “But consider this: if you’d been a little stricter, our wager might have gone differently.” He is ghostly pale against the bookshelves, for all that he spends most of his time out at sea; of course, his ship isn’t exactly normal, by anyone’s standards. He has made no effort to dress himself neatly for the meeting. This is typical, and Elias hardly bothers to notice anymore.

The air is heavy around Peter Lukas. Like the weight of an anchor, it drags at the eye to look at him. This, too, is something Elias doesn’t notice any more than he has to.

He turns away from Peter as the door clicks open and Jon enters without bothering to knock. Another common occurrence, but Elias finds himself wishing that, just this once, Jon might have deigned to show some manners.

Too late now, he supposes.

“Hello, Jon,” he says pleasantly. “Thank you for your time.”

“You told me it was urgent,” Jon says. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered. I assume you haven’t forgotten me telling you that we’re not talking right now?”

“How could I forget?” Elias says dryly. “You were so very…concise about it. Not to mention loud. No, I’m afraid this particular meeting couldn’t wait. I did try to delay it, but…”

“I wasn’t having any of it,” Peter says. Jon flinches visibly, turning to look at the man whose presence he clearly hadn’t noticed before now. Peter grins, openly pleased. He has always enjoyed his games. “Hello, Archivist. I hear you’ve been having some trouble adjusting to your new situation.”

Jon glances between them, wary. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you.”

“Peter Lukas. Lovely to meet you at last, Mister Sims. Or is it Jonathan? Or…Jon? Knowing Elias, it probably is. So I suppose that’s what we’ll be using today.”

Jon is confused, as is only understandable; given a few more seconds, he would no doubt remember exactly where he has heard the name before, and respond accordingly. But the ingrained good manners that his grandmother enforced on him take precedence. He offers a hand to shake. Peter Lukas accepts it. And, gracefully, as though executing the steps of a well-choreographed dance, he yanks Jon forward, steps past him, and forces his arm up against his back.

Jon barely has time to cry out before he is manhandled up against Elias’ desk and bent over it, pressed face first against the wood.

Elias makes a resigned sound. He allows himself the luxury of some small attachment; not a total knowing, not an avenue for exchange of understanding, but rather the smallest of conduits through which he can peer, gingerly, at Jon’s present state.

The arm is giving him some pain, folded up behind him as it is; Jon is holding very still, concerned that any movement might cause it to be ripped right out of his socket. He is correct to worry. It is the kind of injury Peter would inflict easily, and without second thought.

Jon’s mind is an inscrutable flurry of sensation and half-formed thought. Fear is very prominent; Elias tastes it, knows it, and allows himself a moment of enjoyment before sifting through the scraps. Confusion, outrage, anger. Faintly, betrayal. A stranger has caused him harm on what he perceives as Elias’ territory, and he cannot understand why Elias has allowed it.

Unfortunate, but unavoidable. Elias blinks, allowing the conduit to slip closed instead of expending the effort required to maintain it.

“Don’t break his arm,” he says. The tone is mild, but it is not a request. “He’s off to China in a couple of days, he can’t afford the recovery time.”

Jon lifts his head just far enough to meet Elias’ eyes. The angle must hurt his neck; the ugly scowl on his face is unpleasant to see, but Elias looks anyway. “What the _hell_ is going on?” he demands. Compulsion twines through his words like fishing line, invisible. The effect is as it usually is. Elias allows himself a few seconds of resistance, shivering pleasantly.

“Our master and Peter’s have something of a longstanding relationship,” he says. “We have a lot in common, including a mutual revulsion for the ritual you call the ‘Unknowing’. He wants it stopped, just as much as we do.” It’s not a complete answer, and the compulsion lingers at the back of his mouth, buzzing behind his molars. But its efficacy has been diminished. Elias strips it of any remaining power and expels it with a sigh.

And then winces as Peter very brusquely slams Jon’s skull against the desk.

“Yes,” he says before Elias can comment. “Because I know you’re about to ask me if that was necessary. There’ll be no more of the questions today, Archivist. Not around _me_. I might feel chatty sometime and stop by to tell you a story, but that’ll be when it suits me, and not you. Are we clear?”

The sound Jon makes is far from coherent. Peter responds by winding his free hand around the neck of Jon’s tie and pulling it tight across his throat.

“Have I made myself clear?” Peter asks. This time, Jon chokes out a perceptible affirmative. “Good. Now, you’re going to hold very still, and I will oblige your boss by not breaking the arm. And this is not an empty threat, as I’m sure he’ll tell you.”

“It is not,” Elias allows. The look Jon throws him is positively murderous.

“And this is one of our _allies_?” he snaps.

“Oh yes,” Peter says. “Elias is something of an…old family friend, shall we say.”

Jon opens his mouth, the question already forming, and finds his curiosity dashed against the desk, along with his head. He’ll have quite the bruise to show for it; pale as he is, he has always bruised very easily. His glasses are pitifully askew. Elias rises from his chair. He moves around the desk to Jon’s side, slipping a hand in between his forehead and the wood. Jon is too hot, flushed with fear, dazed with violence. He leans into Elias’ hand.

Peter watches. He is so easily forgotten; when he doesn’t deign to speak, he slips into the background of the scene, as much a part of the set as the bookshelves. But Elias has never once forgotten anything, and he doesn’t make an exception for Peter. Calm, he stares right back.

“He’s your favourite, isn’t he?” Peter says. He nods towards Jon’s prone form; his tone is heavy with insinuation.

It is a mark of the very old relationship he shares with Peter’s family, that Elias does not dismiss him outright.

That, and he’s not wrong. Jon is special; Elias will admit it, readily and without restraint. Jon is special because he is _powerful_. More than any Archivist Elias has known in his life. He is more curious, more determined, more obsessive than the rest, and the intensity of these traits allows him to draw very deeply from the well of their master’s hunger, and to give back in turn. He’s still new to the role, and therefore prone to error, but he is learning, and quickly. Is it any surprise that Elias is drawn to him? Jon’s potential, and the brief but increasingly frequent flashes of _power_ that he demonstrates are like fragments of gold flashing bright amidst sifted mud and silt; the farther he gets from humanity, the brighter he gleams.

And as deeply tied as he is to their master, is it any wonder that Elias responds to him in new and fascinating ways? There has never been anyone quite like Jon.

And, yes, there is more than one way to want him. Elias is a creature capable of complexities; he can desire Jon’s power, his knowledge, his obedience, and his body. But none of these things have any bearing on his ability to serve their master, and he spares a brief moment to resent that Peter felt the need to insinuate otherwise. Obviously he is in control of himself. There is no alternative.

These younger Lukases are a world apart from their predecessors. There are days when he misses the likes of Mordechai Lukas, who spared at least a modicum of courtesy for his friends. Although he also shared Peter’s fixation with repayment, so perhaps they are not that different after all.

“You came here to balance a ledger,” he says to Peter. “And I have limited time to spare, so you’ll excuse me if I ask you to get on with it.”

“Consider yourself excused,” Peter tells him with a grin that verges on disrespectful. “Your Archivist, on the other hand.” He releases Jon’s arm and tie; Jon shifts, clearly expecting freedom. His eyes widen as he discovers that he can’t move the arm, that his tie continues to pull tight around his throat. He looks to Elias for answers.

Peter gets in first. “Oh, no one’s holding you,” he says cheerfully. “No one at all. Honestly, it’s a bit beneath me to pull this kind of stunt; more of a party trick than anything else. But your Elias insists on rushing me, and I’d hate to sabotage such a beneficial relationship. So, my proposal to you: you learn your lesson, you ask me no questions, and I’ll get it over with as quickly as possible. Sound fair?”

“Get _what-_ ” Jon begins, before catching himself. He bites back the question, though it clearly causes him some pain to do so. No doubt he would prefer to avoid making further acquaintance with the very solid wood of Elias’ desk.

“You might at least explain,” Elias murmurs. He keeps his hand under Jon’s forehead; like Jon, he too would rather not have to deal with an unplanned concussion. And although he makes no conscious effort to _know_ , some of Jon’s terror slips through the space where skin meets, where their atoms mingle and embrace in miniature. He will share that terror in the ordeal to come. Share in the pain as well, if only as an echo.

He is rather looking forward to it.

Jon stares up at him, beseeching in silence. Elias responds with a carefully crafted look of regret, with a hint of rage in the tightness of his lips, with a ghost of the protectiveness he is so often accused of. It means that he spots the sudden jolt of disbelief on Jon’s face as Peter reaches around him and carelessly unbuckles his belt. Horror arrives in second place as his trousers are unzipped, and then there is more terror. Jon has always been very good at terror.

“Now, your Elias and I had something of a wager,” Peter says. He shoves Jon’s trousers and underwear down to mid-thigh, leaving him exposed, still bent over the desk, gasping as the air hits him. He talks over the shocked, incoherent protests Jon attempts to make. “He believed you’d learnt your lesson about hiding things from him. What with the kidnapping, and him having to call me up in a panic to find a way to rescue you- oh, did he not mention that part? Not that it matters. He thought you’d know better than to keep secrets from him, seeing where it got you last time. But me, I’m less forgiving. I know what people are like; we’re all in it for ourselves at the end of the day, and nobody shares if they’re not forced to. _I_ wagered you’d be right back to your bad old ways in no time. And I think we can all agree on the outcome. Plotting his murder, were you? Tut, tut, Archivist.”

“I didn’t,” Jon says. He twists his head, trying to see what Peter is doing behind him. There is no colour left in his face; the sting of humiliation lingers around him, like the smell of rain in a cloudy sky. “I wasn’t, I. I didn’t want him killed, I just. I didn’t know he rescued me, that was…oh god. _Peter Lukas_. You took Gertrude and Michael to stop the Spiral. You sent Helen.”

“At my request, yes,” Elias says. “I did tell you I was doing everything I could.”

“He called in a lot of favours for you,” Peter agrees. “Not that you appreciate it.” He reaches into a pocket, withdrawing a tube of what appears to be winch grease, if the label is to be trusted. Elias gives it a dubious glance.

“If you wanted something more appropriate,” he begins, and Peter shrugs him off, uncapping the tube.

“This’ll do nicely,” he says. “I use it for tools that don’t want to work the way they should. A bit like this one here.” He gives Jon’s hip a hard slap. Jon yelps before he can stop himself.

He’s shivering. Probably not from cold, because Elias greatly dislikes the cold and never allows his office to slip below a comfortable temperature. More likely is that the gravity of his situation is starting to sink in. One arm is still pinned behind his back; he cannot move it, though the subtle tensing of his muscles suggests that he is trying to. The tie around his neck is still pulled tight. It could choke him at any time.

And in his hour of need, he looks to Elias to assist him.

Better late than never, Elias supposes.

“You can’t actually mean to let this happen,” Jon says. “Elias? This is…this is insane, this is… _criminal-_ ” but he hesitates, no doubt remembering two murders, and Daisy telling him that the police avoid investigating the Institute. Perhaps it is this moment in which he truly understands. In which he _knows_ what is going to happen to him.

Or perhaps it is the sensation of Peter Lukas’ large, grease-smeared fingers beginning to push into him. The sound Jon makes is truly extraordinary; Elias gives a slow, satisfied blink, and thinks fondly of the tape recorder.

“The thing you have to understand about Elias,” Peter says in a conversational tone, “is that he’s always been much too protective of his own. Too slow to discipline them, if you know what I mean. I’ve told him several times that his soft heart will only cause you lot more pain in the long term, but does he listen to me? Not a chance.”

“And _I_ have told you several times that I’m satisfied with Jon’s development,” Elias says. He puts some heat into the retort, because it wouldn’t do for Jon to think that he has been utterly abandoned.

Jon himself is unfortunately too occupied with clawing at the desk with his free hand to notice. His shoulders shake as he sucks in sharp, pained breaths; Peter is not being kind to him. But then, kindness does not run in that particular dynasty. Never has.

Elias is not above kindness. Especially where Jon is concerned, which is a personal failing he is quite sure will come back to bite him soon enough. For the moment, he reaches for Jon’s free hand, gently taking hold of his wrist.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” he says sincerely. “This was never part of the plan, and it’s not something I willingly agreed to. I don’t want to see you harmed. But I am also not in a position to jeopardise an alliance that spans centuries; not with disaster so close at hand.” Knowing Jon as he does, which is never as well as he would like, Elias is aware that words alone won’t convince him. Jon needs proof. He needs to see and feel to understand, and so Elias reopens the conduit, and allows them to know each other.

“Forgive me,” he says, allowing some measure of regret, of rage, of pain, to sing songbird-like within the cage his ribs make. He _truly_ feels it. And, judging from the way his eyes widen, Jon feels it too. That’s good. It’s important that he understand: Elias is not human, but he is also not a machine.

The conduit is a two-way street, and Elias holds it open to really experience Jon’s quivering as Peter forces another finger into him. He’s tense, wound up so tight he risks pulling a muscle. His emotional state would be cause for serious concern in most situations. Elias squeezes his wrist in the hopes of providing a distraction.

“I didn’t choose this,” he says, and thinks, _if you had only listened to me. If you had trusted me_ , _neither of us would be in this position,_ knowing that Jon will know it from him in turn.

He feels the jolt of Jon’s guilt. The startled heave of his shoulders; Peter pulls his fingers brusquely free, wiping them on the edge of Jon’s cardigan. His favourite, Elias can’t help but notice. How unfortunate. Winch grease is not easy to remove from clothing.

“He’s ready,” Peter says. “Or close enough. It’ll sting, but isn’t that the point?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon mumbles into the desk. “Elias, please. Can’t you-”

“He really can’t,” Peter says cheerfully. He gives Jon a hard smack on the rump, prompting a yelp. “Elias might be unwilling to cut the apron strings, but my lot don’t believe in coddling the youngsters. We’re running out of time. And I won’t have you sabotaging all our work while you wander around trying to find yourself. A bit of discipline never hurt anyone. Not permanently, anyway.”

“It had better _not_ ,” Elias says sharply. He’s a little startled by his own vehemence; possibly some of it feeds from Jon, but Elias isn’t amateur enough to sink beneath the surface and drown himself in someone else’s suffering. If he is hostile, he owns a great deal of that hostility. If he finds himself abruptly opposed to Peter’s repayment for the lost wager, he has no one to blame but himself.

And, as with Mordechai Lukas, the relationship is strong enough that Elias could intervene and count on being indulged. If he didn’t mind dealing with the consequences. If he could afford for word to spread. And if he was ready to turn his back on the first of his master’s tenets.

He watches. It’s all he can do. Anything more would amount to senseless self-destruction, and a victory for the Stranger. Jon will have to endure.

“ _Try_ to show a little mercy,” he settles for. “I realise it doesn’t come naturally.”

Hands on his own belt, Peter gives a shrug. He unbuckles it precisely, slowly, making sure Jon can hear it happening. “I save my mercy for myself; no one else really matters, you know how it is.” He pauses just short of unzipping his worn trousers. Nods in Jon’s direction. “Unless you want him first? Warm him up for me, I don’t mind.”

“No,” Elias says immediately. And in the wake of the instinctive response, he feels Jon’s thoughts echoing hollowly inside his mind, like a cry for help in an empty church.

 _No_ , Jon is thinking. _Not here, not now. Not like this._

Quite right, too. If Elias ever decides it’s in both their best interests to seduce Jon, he will do so with a little more courtesy.

“I won’t- _can’t_ \- interfere,” he says. “But I also won’t be joining you. Now. I’m sure we’d all rather get this…unpleasantness over with, so. If you wouldn’t mind.” He is distantly aware of Jon’s terror, the icy tightness in his chest. His rejection of the situation; he still doesn’t quite believe this is happening. He mistakes it for some awful nightmare which he will wake from soon enough.

He is quite wrong. Elias turns his head away from the sharp sound of Peter’s zipper, the slick spread of additional grease. It’s not like him to be so squeamish. But he finds his attention better spent on briefly stroking Jon’s hair, repositioning himself close enough that Jon can lean his head against Elias’ thigh if he chooses to.

“You can’t do this,” Jon mouths into the wood of Elias’ desk. “This can’t be happening-” he cuts himself off with a sharp yelp, the sound stretching out, rising in pained, horrified volume as Peter starts pushing into him. In his panic, he grabs at Elias’ wrist with his free hand, digging his nails in.

Elias takes the pain. His own and Jon’s as well; it would be easy enough to cut contact, but he will not. His experience lacks the colour of Jon’s. Lacks the bright, sharp hues of agony as his body is split open barely prepared. Lacks the darker notes, the sticky shame and embarrassment, not just that this is being done to him, but that it is being done with a witness. That Elias is the witness.

 _I never wanted this to happen to you,_ Elias thinks, with a level of clarity that Jon will be able to read from him. _I tried to dissuade him. I swore you were loyal. I put so many things on the line for you. And in return, you went down to the tunnels with a killer, and asked her if she would help you to hurt me. How could you, Jon?_ He gives a small, silent gasp of pain as the connection, the knowing, slips him just deep enough inside Jon’s skin to really feel as he does.

It is a wonderful, decadent agony, allowing himself to stay there. He _knows_ that one of Jon’s arms is burning where Peter keeps it folded back; that he can barely draw breath through his own tie, which has tightened mercilessly across his windpipe; that Peter’s cock has opened him up and slid easily inside him, frighteningly deep, shockingly relentless. Elias feels Jon’s garbled denials turn to numbness, until even numbness abandons him and he opens his mouth to scream.

Peter is not kind. Given the option to take things slowly, to patiently work Jon up to the point of being ready to take him, he chooses instead to rush things. His thighs work as relentlessly as pistons, fucking Jon with a singular violence that is rather revealing of his temperament. A sadist, of course. Many of the Lukases are. It comes from each believing themselves to be the only true centre of the universe.

The assault would be almost enough to force Jon up the desk, if not for Peter grabbing his poor, trapped arm in one hand, and his tie in the other. He grips these like reins, manoeuvring Jon to whatever angle suits him best. Whatever is least comfortable for Jon. And in response, all Jon can do is cling to Elias’ wrist and give himself over to broken, breathless yells.

On a professional level, the experience is quite entrancing. Elias briskly catalogues the sounds Jon makes, the rise and fall of various emotional states, the pain. The sense that something is being stripped from him, that he is being sanded down raw and remade into a shape he doesn’t recognise. A fascinating insight into a colleague.

But on a personal level, Elias is startled by just how distasteful he finds the whole thing. He grits his teeth at the slap of skin on skin, winces at Jon’s short gasps for breath in between crying out, whenever Peter looses his grip on the tie long enough to allow it.

And then there is the guilt. It’s just possible that Elias might have been a little heavy-handed with the knowledge he pushed onto Jon; he so often forgets how new Jon is to his powers. He has established himself as blameless, regretful, melancholy; his reward is Jon’s guilt. And, abruptly, Elias finds he doesn’t want it.

He’s not very pleased with himself. Sentiment is something he can’t afford, and certainly not where Jon is concerned. He should know better. He should _be_ better. Except that it appears he is not, and _that_ is infuriating.

“Don’t,” Jon mutters. He turns his head towards Elias, flinching as a particularly rough thrust from Peter slams his forehead against the desk. His voice would be too low to hear, if Elias wasn’t practically inside his skin by now. “Whatever you’re- Jesus _Christ_. Whatever you’re thinking. Don’t. Don’t do it _._ ” Too short of breath to continue, he leans his face against Elias’ thigh. His tears immediately begin to stain the fabric.

Elias is fascinated. Jon has managed to sense the brief, though intense flare of fury, and immediately attributed it to Elias considering an attack on Peter. And equally interesting, he prefers to suffer.

He doesn’t know Jon as well as he should. That can’t be allowed to continue. He’ll do better in the future; Peter might just have given him the springboard he needs to cross the chasm Jon imagines between them. And in the meantime, he’ll settle for Jon clinging to his wrist, drawing comfort from the simple fact of Elias’ presence.

Peter finishes with a low, guttural groan, pushing himself deep inside Jon’s body, heedless of his thin protests. Jon’s disgust hangs in the air like a miasma. He finds this last indignity worse than the assault itself; Elias catches fragments of thought, cravings for solitude, for a shower, for silence, for Elias to pick up the letter opened Jon knows he keeps in the top drawer of his desk, and drive it through one of Peter’s eyes.

“That’ll do the trick,” Peter says. He pulls out briskly, doing up his trousers in a business-like manner, barely out of breath. He gives the impression of mild satisfaction, nothing more. “Mind if I go and clean up?”

“Down the hall on the left,” Elias says automatically.

“I’ll leave the Archivist in your care,” Peter tells him. He follows it up with a conniving wink. As, of course, he should. The wayward Archivist has learnt his lesson, Peter has established himself as a force to be feared, and Elias will step in and offer Jon comfort.

He feels a flicker of guilt. It might be Jon’s; he suspects not. And that really is unfortunate.

As the door clicks closed in Peter’s wake, Jon stirs. His arm is no longer pinned against his spine; he goes to move it, too fast and too soon, and groans in pain.

“Slowly,” Elias says. He reaches out, rubbing at the muscles of Jon’s upper arm. “There’s no permanent damage, but you’ll need to be careful with it for a few days.” With his free hand, he loosens the stranglehold Jon’s tie has around his neck. And, although the effort of it is starting to cost him, he summons empathy, sympathy, the infamous protectiveness. Broadcasts them to a receptive Jon, who shivers.

“That was,” he says, and stops. Swallows hard. “I’m. I need…” But he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, and they both lapse into silence. Jon tilts his head to look up at Elias.

His hair is a mess, eyes reddened, glasses askew; his clothing doesn’t bear mentioning. He’s still breathing too quickly. Shivering. And, like a punch to the gut, Elias is struck with a shockingly powerful urge to take him. To hold him down as Peter did, to stroke his hair and whisper praise, to fuck him slowly open until he starts to moan. To please him, and be pleased in turn. To erase Peter’s presence and Peter’s memory and replace both with himself. To own his Archivist.

The need is strong enough that Elias feels his hands twitch; some of it must show on his face. He sees it reflected on Jon, this dark and desperate hunger. They look at each other.

It’s Jon, Elias realises. This is Jon, reversing the conduit. Feeding his own wants back up the pipe, until they spill over and start to flood Elias’ mind. And his wants are vivid indeed.

Elias exhales slowly. He is startled to find his hands shaking. Shocked by how close he came to giving Jon everything he is imagining, and more besides.

“No,” he says out loud, and sees Jon’s eyes tighten.

“I- sorry,” he says. Elias shrugs it off.

“Another time,” he says gently. It’s several seconds before he trusts himself to touch Jon. He goes back to working at the muscles of his upper arm, coaxing him into moving it, slowly, into a more comfortable position. “When the Unknowing is stopped and you and I understand each other as well as we should. Then I’ll give you anything you want from me.”

Jon makes a ragged sound of agreement. He’s coming back to himself, though slowly. Still too raw, too empty, to engage in proper conversation. And that’s fine. Elias knows not to push him.

It’s enough to feel Jon’s acquiescence, his silent surrender, his grudging trust. His guilt. He will not be going back down into the tunnels, and he will not be plotting against Elias any further; with a little coaxing, he will do as he is told, although Elias fully expects that he will sulk about it.

In a few minutes, Jon will feel ready to get off the desk and tidy himself up. He will wait in the office while Elias courteously shows Peter out, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, staring blankly at his surroundings. Full of regret. Ready to learn from his mistakes.

And then Elias will return, and they will discuss how he wants Jon to proceed.


End file.
